


Dreaming Of You

by gaylock



Series: OneShots [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, John dreams of sherlock, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock meeting for the first time, LMAO, M/M, One Shot, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, a dream is a wish your heart makes, dreams do come true, sherlock looks like an angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 17:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5833855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets the man of his dreams - literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming Of You

It’s cold out here. It is so cold. Wind whips the cheap lightweight spring jacket around your torso as rain splatters on your face and neck.  
  
You wish you’d checked the weather before going out. You wish you had thought to bring an umbrella, or a raincoat. Or both.  
  
The freeze is seeping into your skin, making you shake and shiver violently. Fighting against nature, you reach the street only to be splashed with muddy, arctic water as a cab screeches by.  
  
_**“Fucking hell”**_ you mutter, and you can feel the muscles in your bad leg tighten. Your knee begins to ache, as well as your shoulder, and you have a brief flashback to your army days.  
  
Something pushes you out of it though, literally, and you tumble to the ground. As you fall you instinctively reach forward, hoping to grasp something to keep yourself upright.  
  
Cloth, barely even damp, brushes your outstretched fingers as a surprisingly warm but extremely pale hand clasps yours firmly in its grasp.  
  
Suddenly, you’re not cold anymore; or if you are, you can’t feel it. The rain and wind and bustling people disappear. Your eyes zero in on that hand, tracing the long, lithe fingers and comparing the softness to your own rougher ones.  
  
Eyes travel upwards, along the black sleeve of a trench coat, and up to the high popped up collar. The beautiful  _blue-ish, grey-ish_ scarf wrapped around a **beautiful** long pale neck.  
  
Your eyes trace cupid-bow lips and high cheekbones, before settling on intense eyes that match the scarf in color.  
  
You know you’re not falling anymore; that the hand has stopped the  _undoubtedly_ ungraceful fall that was about to occur.  
  
But it suddenly doesn’t feel like that anymore. It feels like you’re falling, faster than should be possible, and straight into those gorgeous blue-grey eyes that are still staring at you.  
  
**You are falling and falling and you’re not sure you ever want to stop.**    
  
—————————–  
John wakes up slowly, lifting his head from the cab door. He knows he was dreaming, he can feel it. He just isn’t quite sure what about. Lifting his hand, he stares at them. Stares so hard his eyes start to ache, and he knows that hands had something to do with it but he just can’t seem to remember  _ **WHAT**_.   
  
He drops his hands and shakes his head. Whatever. He pays the cabbie and opens the door, before leaning in and grabbing his things. He doesn’t have a lot, which is convenient for traveling. Not that he does much of that, though.  
  
John looks up at the door in front of him, **221B Baker Stree** **t**  it says, and he feels nervous. Walking up to the door, he knocks four times in quick succession. An old woman opens the door, and greets him with a smile. He can’t help but smile back, and let’s her lead him farther into the flat. She’s talking about something- no, some _one_ , and he tries to pay attention. But suddenly she’s walking him into a room, and its full of flasks and science stuff and micro-scopes but none of that matters.  
  
He notices none of it, absolutely nothing except for the startlingly familiar long pale hands that rest atop a counter.  
  
A voice registers in the back of his mind, faintly. Not the _lady-whats-her-name-oh Miss Hudson_ , and not his own. It's deeper, almost melodic; tenor and harmony and symphony and beauty.   
  
And his eyes are drawn to the long pale neck of this man, watching how it moves as he talks. His face is still turned down towards the counter in concentration, and John can only see dark curling hair and high cheekbones.  
Miss Hudson is talking again, introducing the man as Holmes.  _ **Sherlock Holmes.**_  
  
And then the man- no, **ANGEL** turns to face him, and his breath literally stops. John’s dream comes rushing back and he can feel himself falling and falling and falling into those _green-no blue- no GREY_ eyes.  
  
_**Falling and falling and falling; he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop.**_


End file.
